


Hear Him Call

by veiledndarkness



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1375885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for twd_kinkmeme.  Spoilers for 4x11. Prompt: While hiding under the bed, Rick hears something he never expected to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Him Call

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Joe's group came across Daryl earlier. When Rick's hiding under the bed, it's not fighting he hears, but Joe pushing Daryl against the bed and having his way with him. Bonus points if Rick doesn't realize it's Daryl until he hears him moaning or/and if Daryl moans Rick's name.

-  
He’s not sure if it’s jealousy or fear that keeps him from leaving his hiding spot at first.

He can lie there and pretend that he’s safe under the bed, breathing in shaky, dust filled bursts, sweat dripping off his face like tears, but he knows it’s false. It wouldn’t take much to discover him, hell, he would’ve thought the sound of his raspy breathing was a dead give away, but it’s more than that keeping him pinned in fake security. 

There’s fear, yeah, lots of it. He doesn’t want to move, not yet. He’s not stupid; he doesn’t automatically assume that the men crawling over this house, moving from room to room are anything resembling neutral the way he would have before. 

He’s learned, (the hard way, isn’t it always the hard way) and his body aches anew where his skin is split and bruised, and when he closes his eyes, he can still see the Governor hovering above him, animalistic rage driving his fingers to clench harder, harder, harder, no air left as the sun shines in a halo behind the head of the man trying to choke the life from him… 

He catches on a breath and strains his ears as the boots at the end of the bed move closer, heavy footsteps on one set, lighter, more precise footsteps to the other. Careful, guarded footsteps, those boots are familiar, he thinks as they approach the side of the bed. Sweat, dirt and the tang of blood hangs in the air.

He hears one of them chuckle, a soft, dirty sound and there’s a low murmur between them. The weight of the bed suddenly sags down and it occurs to him just what’s about to happen when he hears the whisper quiet slide of a zipper going down, the sound of someone exhaling abruptly. 

“Go on,” the voice commands, rough and authoritative. “You’re no blushin’ bride.”

And from there, he tries his best to ignore this, to block it out by concentrating on the sounds of other people stomping about in the house, on the way two men are arguing down the hall over a bed, tussling and claiming rights to the privilege of sleeping on something other than the ground, but nothing drowns out the sounds of clothing being shed hastily, small intakes of breath, a smothered moan echoing down to his ears. 

He feels prickles of something slide down his back, something like fear that banks on the slightest edge of arousal. It’s been a long time, too long, since he’s touched anyone that way and his fingers itch with the need to feel someone press in tight to him. He swallows, his stomach clenching, fear forgotten in the breathless gasps that he hears over his head. 

He closes his eyes and he can see it, see the way they must be kneeling on the bed, considering how the mattress is dipping under their weight, the way they’re hardly undressed because the days of taking their time with sex are far behind them and as he pictures it, his mind wanders, the aches that he feels bone deep fade away as he tries to remember the last time he’d felt anything resembling pleasure. 

He feels the slightest swelling of arousal build between his legs, the pool of blood dizzying. He’s shaking a little, afraid but determined, and he hears another breathy gasp that makes his groin ache. The musky, sweaty smell of arousal floods his nose, floods the room and he clenches his eyes tighter, listening to the other man stutter out moans. He can hear quiet suckling and the thought sends a lightning bolt licking up his spine and down into his stomach. 

God, he can _hear_ everything, the soft sounds of someone tugging on hair, the lick and suck of someone’s mouth and unbidden, the image comes to his mind, the one that he hasn’t wanted to let himself think of before, the one he refuses to entertain and often has nonetheless. He aches, hard and unwillingly aroused by the rough slick and slide noises above. 

More sounds come now; spit hitting palms, the catch of breath again, slow and thick. He can hear the moans more clearly, the way the other man is trying to hold back, like his arousal is being dragged from him with each stroke up and down his cock. Tiny moans, little pinpricks all over his skin, setting his nerves on fire, his thighs damp with sweat, and the image comes to him again, Daryl on his knees, lips parted around the length of his cock, sucking and tugging hungrily on him, hair tangled in his fingers as he fucks into his mouth. 

He gasps before clamping a hand over his mouth, shame rubbing up alongside his near desperate arousal. He’s sickened by the insistent image, that he should be thinking of this now when the risk of his discovery is so high, when the death toll at the prison still looms in his mind, but it’s there and he’s struggling to not reach down and press his hand against the straining front of his pants. 

He can’t help it, he just _can’t_. It’s so strong, the idea of Daryl kneeling down for him, looking up at him with those eyes of his, respect and trust behind his eyelashes, unwavering faith, it’s intoxicating, heady and potent and his cock pulses at the image and he rubs down against the floor slightly, hissing between his teeth at the feel. He’s close, so close, and even the shame of it all isn’t enough to stop him. 

There’s a sudden sharp moan, a desperate panting, and the mattress shakes right over him as the man cries out, his own name from the man’s lips as he comes and it’s with a cold shock of awareness that he feels his own orgasm begin, bolts of pleasure waving up from his toes and he shudders, hearing his name again, falling from the lips of a voice he’d know anywhere. 

“Rick…Rick…”

He’s still, so very still, as he hears a cruel chuckle then.

“That the one you were searchin’ for?”

There’s a grunt, a gruff sound of acknowledgement and he shivers all over to realize just who is on the bed, and there’s a small streak of anger coiling now, replacing his fear. He has enough thought left to know now that Daryl made it out and it’s as he slides out from underneath the bed that he thinks he’s not so opposed to doing what needs to be done right about now. 

-


End file.
